Thursday, October 09, 2003

I cannot help but draw parallels between that world of filth, debauchery, violence and addiction that Burroughs recalls, and the world as seen through the eyes of a bulimic.

You know the act of bingeing on food and purging it back up becomes an addiction in and of itself - it triggers nasty chemical pathways in the brain (similar to the ones activated by narcotics) that say, "it's okay, do it more, it's okay, do it again, it's okay, anywhere you can, it's okay." The junk flows free and clean into brand new veins when you've got cash and are at the store, standing in line. The fix hits sometime after the heaves of bile subside. It's okay, it's really okay...and you go catatonic, maybe pass out, maybe hit your head on the way down.

Then one day you shoot some strychnine, or eat 2 gallons of ice cream in less than half an hour. The needle hangs taut off your antecubital fossa, your gastric antrum splits and spills the melted goo into your peritoneum - you're paralytic with pain, and you die.

Or you shoot something else dirty - or fail to ingest your potassium supplement. Your heart wonders what...the...hell..is...this...stops too long to try and think, and again you're convulsed, too glazed with pain to scream, an elephant sitting on your chest, jaw going numb, a chill spreading like Socrates' hemlock elixir, but from your center, not your edges.

...

The Man Within is activated when you cross the line into anorexia - where your body generates its own limbic junk via starvation. You're on the nod as long as you don't eat.

One bite of food is like a shot of Narcan; it shakes your whole system down and rewires all the frazzled channels, everything hurts and nothing makes it stop. You scream and jump against the walls of your skull. You're already manic and terrified - why make it worse with fear of being fat, or being off the junk? Just don't eat - just don't recover - just don't go clean. Then it'll be okay, your juice can flow silently into your contracted innards, your brain can stop rattling.

My Man Within is a fickle bitch.

...

I've been pondering the possibility that these frequent relapses (see FMAS, and a lot hasn't been documented online) might indicate that I am still somewhat less than recovered. I'm on the behavioral equivalent of methadone, but instead of getting it dispensed from a free clinic, I have to try and synthesize the stuff myself.

Granted, being with Josh has definitely helped. More than any counselor or drug has yet. As yet, though, we haven't been able to stick the right electric pin in the right brain center that will fry the conduit permanently.

I had a dream in which I was approached by a translucent Dark Man image while I was unable to move from my bed. I woke up in a panic, feeling like I had just started breathing again, my heart caroming off my sternum. I wouldn't have been surprised had that dark man been holding a toothbrush, bag of Fritos and a 2-liter of Coke.

The threat is still there, and I feel powerless against it.

Recovery from anything is a slow, painful process. Don't let anyone tell you differently. You'll have nightmares and relapses. What is telling about your progress is how quickly you can start over and move on.

Wednesday, October 08, 2003

ALOHA

It's time to send the migrating species on their way. The geese have been mobilized for a while now, and I saw the last cranes of the season off, I believe, last Friday. The robins are sensibly long gone, as are most of the swallows. The blackbirds are lagging behind. I wonder what they know that we don't?

The chickadees and finches and sparrows are in a tizzy of redecorating. They're rebuilding their nests and all trying to squash in the upper stories of the conifers. Sensible, I think.

The crows have been goofing around. That's the best way I can describe their behavior. They're playing chicken with cars, playing tug-of-war with some brightly colored plastic, flapping and cawing from rooftop to suburban rooftop, gathering in noisy roosts at dusk, doing nothing much. It's autumn vacation.

The colors here are accelerating. Red and orange are making an appearance. Yellow is plentiful, as is purply-brown.

It's almost time to batten down the hatches. Are you ready?

EDIT, OCT 10 2003: This morning was a repeat performance of last year's mid-October flight of blackbirds away to the southeast. This time, alas, there was no frisky kitty at the window.

Tuesday, October 07, 2003

This is the exact text of an email I sent to Josh and Sean about a recent encounter with a construction worker. I couldn't think of a better way to sum up:

Ecofeminazi vs. Goon Without His Hard Hat

The near-fight with the construction worker involved me (in my usual mood) walking down the bypass, looking forlornly out at the river (where the construction is), spotting the heron, watching it for longer until it got spooked and flew away, and then looking for a way back into Miniwaukan park (the way I usually go is blocked by equipment). Big ol' tough guy says, which I'm not in the mood for, "Whatsa matter miss? Lost your puppy?" I glare. I say, "Matter of fact, I'm losing my river, my trees, my habitat, no thanks to you." He says, "What, are you like one-a them tree-huggers?" I say, still glaring, "Yeah. And I'm one of those eco-terrorists they warn you about in demolition goon school." He says, "Yeah whatever (under the breath) bitch" and turns around. That was too much.

Now here is where it gets weird. I didn't intend for this to happen, but I didn't think, either. I was mad. No, I was FURIOUS that he dared call me bitch.

I picked up a couple of rocks and threw one at his head. I actually hit him, fairly hard. He didn't have his hat on. I thought he did. Oops. Oh boy.

So he hollers something intelligent like "What the fuck?" and makes like he's coming after me. I say, figuring it's too late to back down, "Don't call ME a bitch, you uneducated prick." Still got rocks in my other hand. "I'm callin' the fucking cops" is what I hear him say next. "Go right the hell ahead," I say, throw my last big rock square at his back, hit slightly to the left, and take off running into the woods on the left side of the brige, west bank of the river. I hide for a little while. I grin. No cops come looking. I walk home another way, crosslots and through the uncleared woods by the river. Private property my ass. Not on this side, it doesn't say that.

Too bad he didn't get my name or his supervisor or anything. That would have been more fun.

So here we have a thing: If a construction worker gets his foreman to call the cops and says, "some chick was throwing rocks at me on site" what are they going to do? Nothing. How will this slow the progress of draining my beloved wetlands and chopping down the remaining trees? It won't.

I need some power tools and a seminar on eco-terrorism. I'm ready. The Garou is howling, the Gangrel is snarling, and Julie's mightily pissed off.

SPECIAL BONUS PROFANITY SECTION

Fred Phelps can suck lactose shits out of my ass. And then he can swallow. As long as it's not homosexual, he should be okay with that.